


Coda

by torolulu



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Community: oz_magi, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torolulu/pseuds/torolulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to the following prompt:</p>
<p>
  <i>The Cedar Junction Letters – sent or unsent, what might Beecher and Keller have had to say to each other?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trillingstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/gifts).



> This was written for the 2012 Oz Magi holiday exchange.

Toby,

Would you believe that none of these uncultured Cedar Junction fucks have ever even heard of Miss Sally? Yeah, at first I couldn't either, but it's true. Maybe Walpole is too podunk a place for Miss S. to bother broadcasting her exquisite tits in our direction, or maybe Massachusetts' very own version of McManus decided that a daily glimpse of a rack like that was enough to stir a con's baser instincts and impede our rehabilitation or some shit—either way, the Schoolyard might as well be in fucking France for all that these hicks here in CJ have seen of it.

I know what you're thinking: “Then what do they watch all day? _Up Your Ante_?”

Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you, you little know-it-all bitch? 

Yeah, I would too. I like things that remind me of you.

But sorry, baby, not _Up Your Ante_.

No, the most dangerous felons in the state of Massachusetts spend their precious TV-time glued to the daytime chat-show of some con-artist self-help guru, listening to her and her legion of dime-store Sister Petes spin feel-good bullshit with a skill and grace that would make fucking Ryan O'Reily himself break out in applause. The fine lady has played host to many a distinguished guest: relationship experts, parenting experts, something called a “life coach”—even a movie star or two. 

So today I'm sitting there in front of the TV, not really paying it any mind, shooting the shit with Bobby—have I told you about Bobby?—and I see the words “TODAY'S TOPIC: NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCES” all up in big capital letters like that. So I think to myself, 'I got to hear this' and throw on my headphones 'cause, like I said to Bobby at the time, I'm something of an expert on this myself. And I can barely hear the TV over Bobby running his mouth about how maybe I could get invited to this phony bitch's show and become a big TV star or make my great escape or something stupid like that, but I somehow manage to make out a bit of what the spooky motherfucker being interviewed is saying: 

So, this guy says that after his wife of fifteen years died, he tried to off himself with pills. His heart stopped beating for like five minutes before the docs brought him back to life. He says he didn't see no white light, which made me wonder if he might be legit—but he didn't see the fire either, so who knows? Anyway, the guy just saw his wife, as you've probably guessed already, but he also _was_ his wife, in a way, and he felt the intensity of her love for him and he felt what it was like to be loved by someone who would destroy his own life for you, and they created heaven with their love for each other or some shit like that.

“Is this pussy right, Keller?” Bobby asks me during the commercial break. “Is that what happens when you die?”

“Complete and utter bullshit,” I tell him.

But let's say it's not, OK? Just for fun. Who do you really think you'd see? Me or your wife? Or this lawyer you wrote me about? 

Of course, _I've_ been in love before, too: I've been married four times, remember? Maybe I'd see Bonnie, huh? What do you think of that?

Later in the show I find out that the guy has written three bestsellers about his connection to the “spirit world” and even has his own TV show in the works—motherfucker has been pulling in some serious cash over the corpse of his beloved wife. So I guess what I told Bobby really is the whole story on this guy. 

Maybe me and Bobby can start a petition, like that geezer did back in Oz, and get _Miss Sally's Schoolyard_ up in here to save us from this shit. 

That sound like a good idea to you?

*

Toby,

Bonnie visited me today. Came straight from Oz. See, she didn't know I was here. No one told her about my transfer. And my girl gave me hell about it like you wouldn't believe, bitching like not even _you_ could about motel rates and the rising cost of gas and things that don't mean shit to a guy serving a life sentence (not that I say that to her). 

“Write a strongly worded letter, babe,” is what I tell Bonnie. “Dear Warden Glynn: some negligent C.O. cocksucker has been derelict in his fucking duties, and as a result I was unexpectedly forced to defer my ex-husband's under-the-table hand-job by roughly four hours. Now give me some fucking recompense or I'll be forced to take further action.”

Bonnie gives me this look like she's going to be the one to finally put me down, but it only lasts a few seconds before she narrows her eyes like the clever little fox that only I know she is. “You sound like you've been talking to too many lawyers,” is what Bonnie tells me.

“Actually, I haven't been talking to any,” is what I say to her, like an fucking idiot, because we both know that's exactly the point.

See, my girl sees right through me. She knows I'm a piece of shit. Over the course of two marriages I've admitted to fuck-all of the metric shitload of marital sins that she has proof fucking positive I've committed. And here I am throwing myself under the bus on a murder for hire charge when the Feds have jack and shit on me.

She could hear you talking through me. She could smell you on me. 

So, I figure I've got to change the subject, 'cause I can see the question forming on her face and sooner or later she would've tried to make me tell her your name. “How are things going over in the merry old land?” is what I decide to ask her. Had she seen that nice old lady with the son in Unit B, the one she used to talk to in the waiting room? Had she seen that pushy slut who's always badmouthing her to the other wives and trying to win her husband special privileges by flirting with the hacks? What about a pretty lady lawyer with dark hair and long legs and big, beautiful brown eyes? Had she seen anyone like that in the lobby? 

But my poor girl was in such a state about not being able to see her man that the President himself could have walked right through that lobby and she wouldn't have noticed him—or so she told me, more or less. 

I say: “Baby, you know I'm sorry.” I say: “Those fucking hacks can't make a simple phone call.” I say: “Don't tell me you didn't get my letters.” I say: “You know I love you, baby.”

But my girl sees through me, remember? She plays along as much as I want her to, but she doesn't try to kiss me when she leaves. I give her a peck on the forehead. She gives me a chaste little hug. 

“Take care of yourself,” she says to me, and walks out of the Visiting Room.

Now here I am, sitting on my bunk with my dick in my hand, remembering those few seconds of her body against mine and wondering if I might finally be able to jerk off again without thinking of you.

Wish me luck.

*

Toby,

I didn't mean it, baby. What I said on the phone? I take it back. I take all that shit back.

Make the trip up to Massachusetts. Do it first thing after your release. Do it before you tuck your kids in at night. Do it before you fuck your new girlfriend and before you eat a big juicy steak or take a stroll in the sunshine or get drunk off your face on those vodka martinis you still love more than you'll ever forgive yourself for. 

Do it because you love me more. 

Make the trip straight from Oz: call a cab and hand the driver that fat wad of cash that your daddy's going to have in your pocket as soon as you walk out the door. Tell him to run a few lights if he has to: you'll make it worth his while. 

When you finally pass the gate and pull into the Cedar Junction, look up at the walls and feel your heart beat faster every time you think you see someone move between the bars on the windows.

If visiting hours are over, throw the kind of tantrum that would have you sent to the hole for weeks if you were still inside: chairs hurled across the floor; glass smashed; your body straining against the four hacks holding you down as a fifth crouches nearby, cursing you and clutching his swollen jaw. Then scream my name until your voice is hoarse: I'll hear you, baby.

When you calm down, insist on waiting in the building. Drink cup after cup of weak coffee from the vending machine in the lobby. Touch the wall and think of me lying in my bunk on the other side and feel your dick get harder and harder until you have to go to the bathroom and jerk off in a stall. Press your forehead against the cold cement wall and say my name when you come: I'll hear you.

In the morning I'll refuse to see you. I'll make a show of it. _I'll_ throw the chairs and break the glass and spend the night jacking off in the piss-stinking little room with my face pressed against cold concrete. 

Round and round. You'll take up at a local motel. The queen-sized bed will make you feel lost, but the closeness of the walls will comfort you. The sick little voyeur staying one room over will learn my name. Your kids will forget yours. 

I'll throw all of your letters in a trash can and set them on fire. I'll only fuck guys who remind me of you. I'll never speak your name aloud. 

You'll turn back to drinking and make toasts in my honour. I'll pick a fight with some half-assed Aryans as a tribute to yours. Round and round. Catholic boys appreciate the value of rituals. Rituals are what get you into Heaven.

You'll make the pilgrimage to Cedar Junction every morning. You'll never make it past the front desk. Don't ask yourself why you're doing this. Don't ask yourself: “What's the point?” I'm giving you an order: make the trip.

Come to me so I that can refuse you and show myself that I'm divine: 'cause it hurts me more, baby. So let me whip myself until I'm holy. Turn me into a saint. When I get to heaven the angels will obey me and even the most blessed souls won't dare speak your hallowed name. 

Toby, I saved your life: now destroy it for me. Show me you love me. Create Heaven in my image. Make me feel almighty. 

*

Toby,

I'm sorry. I know I ask a lot from you. I love you too fucking much. I want everything, all of the time, unconditionally. It's always been all or nothing with us: a zero sum game. What if we can change?

I'm offering a compromise: you live a long life and I die a clean death. We go our separate ways for a while. Maybe, when we meet up again, we'll have a few new stories to tell. 

Take care of yourself, Toby. I'll see you.


End file.
